Sherlock: Cigarette
by IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: DI Lestrade wants a cigarette. See warnings inside.


SHERLOCK

CIGARETTE

_**DI Lestrade wants a cigarette. Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock/John (a little). Rated M for m/m sex, swearing, violence, death, and cigarette smoking.**_

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Characters: DI Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sally Donovan, DI Dimmock, Anderson.**_

_**Rating: Rated M for m/m sex, swearing, violence and cigarette smoking.**_

_**About: Just a fun story about Lestrade really, REALLY wanting a cigarette, and how life makes him want one.**_

_**Ownership: Well of course I don't own it. Do you think I'd be writing fan fictions if I owned these fabulous characters? Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**_

_**I live to entertain.**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_

* * *

><p><strong>-10:<strong>

He really, really wanted a cigarette. He hadn't had one in... six months? Shit, that was the longest he'd ever gone. There was the horrid gum, the patches that didn't do anything unless you stuck three on, the little plastic fake cigarette thing that doctor swore helped... none of it did! Why couldn't he just smoke? Why couldn't smoking be _good _for you? Why did DI Gregory Lestrade have to fucking quit when he had a high-stressed job _and _a high-stressed personal life?

It wasn't fair, none of it. He was beginning to think that the universe was against him. That's why he was here. The whole human race could go about their lives but Greg Lestrade was there to be fucked over.

On some level he knew this wasn't true but it's hard to remember that when you're stuck in your office with mountains of paper work, coffee that tasted like shit, and nothing in your gut for twelve hours. Oh, and no nicotine, because you'd run out of fucking patches!

He threw his pen across the room as Sally Donovan entered. She was used to her boss' nicotine withdrawal and just said, 'More reports.'

Greg groaned and bashed his head against the desk, hard enough for Sally to wince.

'Er, sir?'

'Fine,' he mumbled.

'Yeah right,' she snorted.

'I need–'

'A cigarette, yeah,' she sighed and placed the files on his already overrun desk. 'But you're doing well.'

He sighed and scratched at his arm. At least give him a patch, some fucking gum, anything!

* * *

><p><strong>-9:<strong>

Greg tossed the ball of paper over his back. He knew his office looked like a battle field but couldn't care less. Cigarette, cigarette, cigarette, cigarette, ciga–

'Fuck!' he grumbled and tore the sheet from in front of him. He screwed it up and threw it over his shoulder.

'Really,' Anderson tutted.

'Shut up,' Greg growled.

Anderson dropped the forensics report on Greg's desk and wisely backed out quickly. Greg glared at it.

'I hate you,' he muttered at the paper, wishing he could tear it into tiny pieces and make confetti.

* * *

><p><strong>-8:<strong>

Greg scowled as he pulled on his jacket and left. Two-fucking-ten-fucking-a-fucking-m. He huffed as he exited Scotland Yard, trying very hard not to breathe in. Delicious smoke coming from the right, the designated smoking corner. He stared for a few seconds, considered asking for one, but promptly turned and headed for the tube.

He and Mycroft had been doing well; six _months_! New world record for Gregory Lestrade. He tried to ignore all the smokers, they seemed to be everywhere. Each corner he took was met by an adult or teen puffing away on a long, thin cigarette.

It was the most beautiful thing Greg had ever seen and his skin tingled. But no, he shook his head. Nope, absolutely not.

He ran and hopped aboard a train, breathing heavily. Why did nicotine have to be so bloody addictive and bad for you? And so goddamn good?

* * *

><p><strong>-7:<strong>

Greg stepped into the flat he and his boyfriend, Mycroft Holmes, shared. They'd been living together a year and Greg couldn't be happier. Mycroft was everything he'd been looking for in a partner and had smoked too.

But the realisation that neither were young men had put a stop to that habit and both were falling apart. They'd snapped at each other more than ever and Greg knew one of them would give in. And if Mycroft fell, Greg would fall too.

The kitchen light was on, indicating Mycroft was asleep and there was dinner in the fridge. He pulled it open and found a plate with a medium steak, potatoes and gravy. There was a plate of fresh vegetables next to it and Greg smiled; Mycroft knew he hated cooked vegetables.

He placed the plate in the microwave and waited for it to bing while shedding a few clothes. He stepped quietly into their bedroom and saw Mycroft asleep on his side, chest rising and falling.

Greg smiled and bent down to kiss his boyfriend. Mycroft stirred and peeled his eyes open.

'Hello,' he mumbled.

'Hey,' Greg grinned. 'Go back to sleep.'

'Did you smoke?'

'No.' Mycroft frowned and Greg kissed him again, sticking his tongue into his lover's mouth.

Mycroft moaned and smiled when Greg pulled back. 'Not sure I believe you.'

Greg chuckled and kissed him again, softly.

'Time?' Mycroft yawned when Greg pulled back.

'Three.'

'Should get up,' Mycroft said. 'Meeting at nine.'

'Go back to bed, now,' Greg commanded.

Mycroft grinned and leaned up to kiss Greg again. 'Love you.'

'Love you too,' Greg said and watched as Mycroft drifted back to sleep.

The microwave pinged and Greg got into his pyjamas before detouring to the study he and Mycroft shared. He grabbed the book he'd been reading last night and went into the kitchen. He ate while flicking through the book, skipping the parts where the characters were smoking.

He couldn't get a fucking break.

* * *

><p><strong>-6:<strong>

Two murders by midday and Greg was seriously losing it. Even Sherlock Holmes sensed his foul mood and kept his bickering with Greg's team to a medium. John Watson pecked him on the cheek as a way of saying thanks and Greg sighed.

'Alright?' John asked.

'No.'

'Who knew nicotine could make you so volatile,' Sherlock quipped.

Greg glared at him.

'Just have a bloody smoke.'

'Nope, going good,' Greg grunted.

'Yes, but you're usually charming personality has suffered,' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Have a cigarette.'

Greg scowled at his retreating back.

* * *

><p><strong>-5:<strong>

Greg shoved the sandwich into his mouth, earning a disgusted look from Sally Donovan.

'Wah?'

'Didn't your mother teach you not to speak with your mouth full?'

'Do you always listen to what your mother says?' Greg snapped back after nearly choking.

'Jesus, Lestrade, you're losing it.'

'Am not.'

Sally sighed. 'Maybe you should ease into it, eh? Have a few and cut back slowly. Cold Turkey clearly isn't working.'

'I'm fine.'

'Oh, yeah, fine,' Sally sighed. 'Throwing pens, screwing up paper, teasing psychopaths...'

'Sociopath,' Greg corrected. 'He's a sociopath.'

'Whatever.'

'I'm doing well, six months,' Greg said.

'I doubt that.'

'Serious.'

'So why the sudden bitchiness?' Sally asked.

Greg shrugged. 'It's my real personality; cigarettes helped hide it.' He groaned and rested his head on the table. 'I'm dying.'

'No you're not.'

'Yeah I am.'

'Have a cigarette.'

'_No_.'

Sally sighed again. 'You're gonna snap, Greg. I give you 'til the end of the week.'

He raised his head slowly to look at her. 'Is that a challange?'

'Yup. You go until Friday, until midnight, without a cigarette and I'll give you twenty quid.'

He eyed her carefully before saying, 'Deal.'

* * *

><p><strong>-4:<strong>

Now he was twitching, _twitching_! The first day had been torture, the first week agony, the first month Greg wanted to jump from a bridge. It had got easier after that and Greg had barely noticed it. Why the sudden swing now?

He didn't know, but it really was killing him. He sighed as he stepped from the cop car, eyeing the dead body a few metres away.

Steeling himself and ignoring what he believed to be an imaginary smell, Greg walked to the crime scene.

* * *

><p><strong>-3:<strong>

'I'm in,' Dimmock said, sitting before Greg.

'In on what?'

'The bet between you and Donovan,' Dimmock smiled. 'I reckon you'll make it to Thursday and totally lose it.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence.'

Dimmock shrugged. 'Twenty quid?'

'Twenty quid,' Greg nodded.

Dimmock smiled. 'I'm gonna go have a smoke.' He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet, flipping the lighter between his fingers.

'I'll kill you right now for that packet.'

'Go on then.'

Greg stared at the smokes before groaning and smacking his head on the desk.

'Thursday,' Dimmock chuckled.

Greg groaned. It was only Tuesday.

* * *

><p><strong>-2:<strong>

He made it through Tuesday and even Wednesday. Thursday rolled around and he found himself sitting down for a rare breakfast with Mycroft.

'I hear there's a pool at the Yard about how long it takes for you to crack,' Mycroft said pleasantly. 'A man named William Anderson is involved now, as well as that Molly woman who is fascinated with Sherlock.'

'You all hate me.'

'We most certainly do not,' Mycroft said and flicked through the paper. 'I'm hardly in on the bet, I believe in you.'

'I don't think I'll make it to Saturday.'

'I believe in you,' Mycroft repeated.

Greg said, 'You're the only one.'

'That's because I love you.' He looked up at Greg. 'You do look awful.'

'Why thank you _so _much.'

Mycroft smiled.

-oOo-

Someone had left a packet of smokes on his desk, most likely Dimmock since he'd picked Thursday. Anderson had had more confidence, saying definitely Monday. Molly, as far as Greg could tell, was an idiot; she thought he wouldn't start up again.

She was definitely going to lose twenty pounds.

Greg swept the smokes into his bin and sat down heavily to work on his latest report.

* * *

><p><strong>-1:<strong>

'Lestrade,' Greg said, shifting his mobile to his shoulder so he could continue writing.

'_I'm not going to make it_,' was Mycroft's introduction.

'Sorry?'

'_I'm in a meeting and the man has insisted on a smoke break. We're on my balcony and he's smoking_.'

Mycroft was whispering but Greg could hear the tremor in his voice.

'Mycroft, we're doing good.'

'_One smoke won't kill me,_' Mycroft argued.

'No,' Greg sighed and rubbed his eyes, 'but it'll turn into five smokes, then twenty, then a packet, and next we'll be going through a carton a week each. That will _definitely _kill you.'

'_But I _need _one_.'

'No, you _think _you need one,' Greg said. 'The nicotine's out of your system, it's the memory that's annoying.'

Mycroft sighed. '_Why do you hate me_?'

'I don't. I love you.'

'_Do not_.'

Greg chuckled. 'Mycroft, hang up, go back to your meeting, and don't smoke.'

There was a pause before Mycroft huffed, '_Fine, but I expect sex_.'

'I wouldn't expect anything less,' Greg chuckled and hung up. He eyed the cigarettes in his bin before shaking his head.

* * *

><p><strong>-0:<strong>

Greg yawned and dragged his feet through the front door. He was exhausted and needed a good shag before falling into bed.

He looked up and froze. Mycroft was standing in the kitchen, opening a packet of cigarettes.

'Mycroft, no!'

'Just one,' Mycroft tried.

Greg stormed forward and grabbed the packet. Mycroft followed him across the kitchen and into the living room.

'Gregory, please!'

'No.'

'Just _one_.' He was whining now. Greg tried to ignore the familiarity of the cigarette packet as he opened one of the living room windows and threw the packet out. 'Those aren't free!' Mycroft snapped.

'No,' Greg said and turned to grab Mycroft. He pulled him in for a ferocious kiss and began unbuttoning Mycroft's shirt.

'This is my punishment?' Mycroft mused as Greg backed him into their bedroom. 'I should be naughty more often.'

'Pants, off,' Greg grunted and Mycroft complied.

Greg pushed Mycroft onto the bed and grabbed the condoms and lube. Mycroft was already hard and Greg rolled the rubber on, slathering lube.

'No preparation?' Mycroft asked.

Greg slipped from his clothes and jumped on the bed, looking over his shoulder.

'Very well,' Mycroft grinned. He lined himself up and entered his boyfriend, both moaning at the pressure, the heat, the tightness, the fact that they were having sex.

Mycroft's thrusts were slow and precise at first, bringing waves of pleasure across both their bodies. Soon he amped up his speed and Greg groaned loudly, rocking back to meet Mycroft's thrusts. Mycroft gripped his hips tighter and bit his lips as he slid in and out, the familiar tightness always making him moan.

He hit Greg's prostate and Greg began muttering under his breath, swears mostly about how Mycroft was a fucking sex god.

Mycroft grinned and pounded harder as Greg stroked himself, both men gasping as heat spread through them.

'Mycroft,' Greg groaned and gripped his cock tighter. 'God!'

He came all over his hand, the sheets, and continued to rock back and stroke himself. Mycroft thrust away and soon was coming, groaning over his boyfriend and squeezing his eyes shut.

They fell to lay side by side, ignoring the stickiness they both felt. They used to smoke after sex, and before it, but not now. No, they just held each other and grinned, loving every second they spent together.

-oOo-

Greg's breathing was shallow and ragged as he tore through the alley, catching a glimpse of the killer at the end of the street. He tore down the pavement and turned, again seeing the man as he climbed over a fence.

Greg hopped over it after him, tearing a gash in his trousers. He ignored the stinging and leapt across the grass, grabbing at the man he'd been chasing for the better part of ten minutes.

The man slid from his jacket and continued running. Greg dropped it and kept running, knowing another cop would grab it.

The man scrambled over another fence but couldn't get a hold and Greg hauled him back. He threw the man on the ground and the man kicked at his shins, making Greg shout. He dropped onto the man and rolled him onto his stomach.

'Manson... Carlton...' Greg gasped. 'Under... arrest...' he continued and slapped the cuffs on. The man continued bucking but he wasn't going anywhere.

-oOo-

'See, you couldn't have done that if you were still smoking,' Sally commented as Greg downed another bottle of water.

'I used to do it all the time,' he said.

'Feeling better though, aren't you?'

He smiled slightly. 'Besides the bitchiness?' She chuckled. 'Yeah, I feel better.'

'Dimmock owes you twenty quid,' Sally reminded him.

Greg grinned.

* * *

><p><strong>0:<strong>

'Just lower the gun,' Greg said calmly, his own gun trained on the serial killer. 'Let the girl go.'

They were in an apartment, the wallpaper peeling and dirty takeaway containers everywhere. The little girl, about seven, was squirming in the man's arms. He wasn't about to back down.

'No,' he said shortly, his eyebrows pulled together. 'Lower yours, copper, and I might let her go.'

Greg had been chasing the man for the past five weeks and wasn't about to go anywhere. But he had to get the little girl to safety.

'NO!' the man shouted.

'Okay, okay,' Greg said calmly, slowly. 'Just be calm, alright?'

But the man was losing control and Greg could see it. The serial killer wasn't going to come in alive and Greg just hoped they could get the girl to safety. Behind him Sally had her gun trained on him, as did two uniforms.

'Just let the little girl go,' Greg said. 'She's innocent.'

'I like 'em innocent,' the man said and sniffed her hair.

The girl began crying and Greg glared. 'Let her go.'

'No.'

Silence, everyone eying everyone else. Tears fell down the girl's face and she sniffed. Suddenly she tried to squirm free and the serial killer panicked. He jammed the gun into her gut–

Greg fired, his shot going through the man's forehead. Sally's went through his shoulder. The girl dropped and her eyes went wide as the man toppled to the floor behind her. A bright red stain was spreading across her dress and getting bigger.

'No!' Greg shouted and leapt forward. He laid the girl back and pressed his hands to her stomach. 'You'll be okay,' he reassured her, 'shh, don't worry.'

She was sniffing and crying, her little body trembling. 'Please... help...'

'I'm here, it's okay,' Greg said as Sally radioed for an ambulance. 'What's your name?'

'Ginny,' she sniffed and winced. The red bloody was spilling over Greg's hands. 'Ginny Mason.'

'It's alright, Ginny, I'll call your my mummy and daddy. They'll be here soon.'

'Daddy's...' she whispered, eyes drifting. 'I have two daddy's. Dada... and papa.'

'I'll call them, I promise,' Greg said. 'Look at me, Ginny, please look at me.'

She did and Greg saw the light go out of her eyes. She stopped breathing, her heart stopped, her brain, her lungs, everything. But the blood, it was everywhere, warming Greg's hands even as she went cold.

'No, no, come on,' he said and wiped at her cheeks, smearing blood. 'Come on, Ginny!'

There was a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see Sally, her face a mask of pain and sadness. Greg felt tears burn at his eyes and he blinked, standing swiftly. He stumbled out of the flat, down the hall, outside into a bright morning. He was covered in blood and drew glances as he wobbled to lean against a tree.

He fell against it and took deep, ragged breaths. He'd seen children die before, thirteen at his last count, and it never got any easier. He was still dripping blood and wiped it on his trousers, his shirt, the grass. It smeared across his hands and dyed them red.

He felt himself begin to shake as the horror crashed over him. He didn't know how long he sat there but suddenly someone else was with him, pressing their back against the same tree and their shoulder against his.

A cigarette was placed in his mouth and lit. Greg drew back a lungful of smoke and sighed, plucking the cigarette from his lips with blood-stained fingers. He turned to look at Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft drew back on his own cigarette and blew smoke above his head.

'I owe Sally twenty quid,' Greg murmured.

Mycroft sighed and smiled lovingly, but sadly. 'I'm sorry.'

Greg nodded and leaned his head against Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft wrapped an arm around him, not caring about the blood. They smoked in silence.

* * *

><p><strong>+1:<strong>

Greg woke bleary eyed and shuffled into the kitchen. He couldn't go to work that day, couldn't bear it. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg and they sat on the couch munching on toast and watching the news.

Greg felt something being pressed into his hands and looked down to see a nicotine patch.

Mycroft smiled at him, lovingly but sadly. 'I'm sorry.'

Greg nodded and peeled it open, sticking the patch on his arm, watching Mycroft do the same. They watched TV in comfortable silence, cuddling into each other.

{THE END}

_**Author's Note: Another end. I'm sorry Greg went back on smoking, I wasn't sure if he would or not but decided he would and then he and Mycroft would try to quit again. I really must quit myself.**_

_**Cheers.**_

_**I live to entertain.**_

_**And, most importantly,**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_


End file.
